Antonia Lively Breaks the Silence, page 21
She might have defended herself, though any defense, she realized, would have only sounded like an excuse to him. “You’re right,” she said, suddenly ablaze with anger. “That’s all I had to do, besides ordering and receiving your books, designing your window displays, and coming in on my days off to manage your inventory. You’re right. All I had to do was make sure your lousy bookmarks were done properly. I’m a complete failure.” And then she was crying, which surprised her, because she hadn’t cried since she’d buried Wyatt.
“Now, now, come on. It’s not as bad as all that,” he said, letting the bookmark fall to the floor. “We’ll just have more printed up. It’s not that big of a deal, really,” but of course it was that big of a deal. When it came to the bookstore, she knew everything was a big deal to him. “Catherine, you’ve been . . . Are you happy here, because it seems to me . . .”
“Yes,” she said, drying her eyes. “It’s just . . . I needed those extra hours.”
“Maybe you should think about switching careers. Get back to your dissertation,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard her, or maybe as if he had, she thought bitterly.
“This is all I have,” she said. Then, “Are you unhappy with me?”
“In all honesty, yes, I am,” he said, digging into his pocket for his vial of toothpicks. “You used to be my top earner. You used to bring such energy to this place, but you haven’t been like that for a long time.” Since Wyatt’s death, you mean, she thought. Today, right now, she finally understood the trap she’d set for herself by taking the dead-end job, which she’d only accepted to give Wyatt his hours of uninterrupted writing time. Temporary has a way of becoming forever, Jane had warned, and here it was, forever, and here Catherine was, crying again. “If you need some time off, take it,” he said, sucking on a fresh toothpick. “Maybe when you come back, you’ll bring some of that old Catherine with you. See, I need you because you want to be here, not because you have to be here. If selling books isn’t your thing anymore, then cut your losses and move on. That’s all I’m saying.” Move on where? Move on how? Catherine wanted to ask as they gathered up the bookmarks and replaced them in the box. “Jane has to run an errand,” he said, “and I have to go to a meeting. We’ll talk soon, okay? In the meantime, I want you to think seriously about our little tête-à-tête.”
THE AFTERNOON DRAGGED on, with only a handful of customers to break the monotony. Around four o’clock, Catherine slipped out to the deli to quickly buy a soda and a bag of peanuts. Under the awning, she sipped the soda and nibbled on the peanuts, thinking not about what Harold had said but about Antonia, whom she thought she saw in the gazebo across the way. She went to wave, then realized it wasn’t her at all and felt silly. Back in the bookstore, she had just taken her place at the register when Linwood Lively walked past the windows, then slowed. He hadn’t shown up at the party, though Catherine had looked for him. She wondered how he would have taken Henry’s awful stunt. Knowing his penchant for scenes, she imagined that he probably would have bloodied Henry and maybe even sent him to the hospital, a thought that was not unpleasant to her. Linwood had stopped just beyond the windows and stood under the awning, the glare of the sun making it hard for her to see his face clearly. He wore a dark blue suit and a black fedora, so out of place, she thought, in all this heat. To get a better look, she took a step closer to the window, just as he removed the hat to wipe his brow. She realized, then, it wasn’t Linwood at all but a man closely resembling him—they had the same drooping eyes, the same oddly shaped head—a man who could have only been his brother. Could he have been the man at her house that terrible night? Could he have been the man who had nearly attacked her?
Royal gazed with fiery intensity into the bookstore window, the display filled with Antonia’s novel. He pressed a hand to the glass, as if he thought he could reach right through. There was ire in his round face and, beyond this, an unassuming, childish sweetness that took Catherine aback. He was not unattractive and had a conical, muscular neck and, she suspected, a taut fighter’s build beneath his suit. Taller than Linwood, though not by much, what she most noticed was his smile, because it was Antonia’s; he had her mouth, full of the same cramped gray teeth. His smile, though eerie, was also strangely placid, even friendly, she thought.
In a different world, Catherine might have invited him in to discuss the latest books. She might have even been attracted to him as, she hated to admit, she’d been attracted to Linwood. Yet this was not a different world. It was the world the Lively brothers had created and that Antonia had written about and that she, Catherine, now found herself inhabiting. In this world, she knew enough not to befriend or trust Royal Lively. When he tapped on the glass and called out her name, smiling, she involuntarily reached under the register and grabbed the handgun. She’d never handled the gun in all the years she’d worked for Harold, and it felt much lighter than she’d imagined it would. Rather than wait to find out what Royal wanted with her, she hurried through the store and locked herself in the bathroom, her breathing suddenly shallow and irregular. She hadn’t had a spell since that awful night on her porch and didn’t want to have another. Sitting down on the closed lid of the toilet, she put her head between her legs, trying to control her breathing. The tiled floor spun in circles as she shut her eyes, though this only worsened her dizziness. She remained like this for what seemed like hours, waiting for the approach of footsteps; the small gun rested in her lap. Then, suddenly, there were footsteps, and he was at the door, banging on it, and she jumped.
“Leave me alone,” she said, though she might have merely thought it because she could only hear the pounding of her heart. As the banging grew louder, she raised the gun, and when she finally fired—her finger shook so much that she accidentally pulled the trigger—the kickback both deafened her and knocked her to the floor. The air smelled of cordite and of pine disinfectant, a plastic bottle of which she’d spilled. Her fingers ached as she pushed herself up and went to the door. She looked through the hole the bullet had made in it, though she saw only the far wall with its shelves of overstock. Now she put an ear against the door, though could only hear the ringing in her head. There was, however, a sudden and faint shrill cry that filled the space, intensifying moment by moment. It did not belong to a man, she noted with fear, but to a woman. Please, God, she thought, shaking. Cautiously, she unlocked the door, giving it a gentle shove, and there was Jane, slumped in one of the fat leather chairs, tears running down her stunned pale face.
They looked at each other without really looking at each other, saying nothing; then Jane got up and raced out of the room. When Catherine saw the silver-dollar-size hole immediately to the left of where Jane had been sitting, she shuddered, realizing what might have been and understanding that she had let the mayhem and savagery of the summer spill over into her own psyche. She hurried after Jane, wanting desperately to explain, to tell her about Royal and about his smile. She wanted to tell her about how she still spoke to Wyatt, to tell her about the affair she’d had with Henry, and why she’d rented him the cottage. Catherine wanted her to know how important she was to her and what their friendship meant. When she called out her name, however, Jane refused to turn around. She simply got into her car and sped away. As Catherine watched her go, she felt her hand heavy with the weight of an object and looked down, horrified to find that she was still holding the gun. She quickly slid it into her pocket, then went back to the deli, where she bought a pack of cigarettes, smoking one after another until the sky turned to gold and it was time to close up for the evening.
Wyatt’s Big Revenge Book
_____
Back in the bookstore, Catherine straightened the shelves. Absently, she kept glancing out the windows, scanning the faces to make sure none of them was Royal. As she rushed around, she cursed him. She hated how she’d reacted, how she’d reached for the gun, as if guided to it by the same force that had brought this man to the town. She was not a violent woman, but she was a frightened one, and this fright had driven her to do something terrible. Oh, Jane, she thought glumly, what have I done? She knew that, come morning, every business up and down Broad Street would have heard the story, which meant that Harold would have heard the story, too. “You’ve jeopardized the reputation of this store,” he would say. “I’m afraid you’ve left me no choice but to let you go, permanently.”
Now she not only cursed Royal but Harold as well. She also cursed Wyatt for dying, Henry for being Henry, and even Antonia, blaming her, too, for the malevolence that swirled through the summer air like a virulent pollen.
As she collected her purse and went to the shop door, she wondered what Royal Lively had wanted with her and how he had known her name. He’s been watching us, all of us, she thought, unlocking the door and peering out at the darkening street. He could be waiting for me anywhere, waiting for me to step outside, for me to pull into my drive, for me to go out on the deck with a glass of wine and a cigarette. After taking a deep, fortifying breath, she locked the door behind her, then walked quickly to her car, checking all around her. Once in the car, she locked the doors, breathing easier, yet the moment she pulled up to her house and saw the black windows that gave onto the blacker rooms, she turned the car around. She felt a need to tell someone about the afternoon, about Royal and the gun and Jane. Though she guessed that Jane had already called Louise and told her everything, she didn’t care; she wanted to tell Louise her version of things. Because she will understand, she thought, turning onto Louise’s street, dismayed to find Jane’s car at the curb. Catherine might have been able to face Louise by herself, but she couldn’t possibly face Jane, not tonight, and certainly not both of them together. They must think I’ve gone crazy, she thought.
As she drove off, she considered taking in a movie, then decided against it. Instead, she drove around aimlessly, up one deserted street and down another, then suddenly wound up at Tint, where she sat several minutes in her car, telling herself there were far worse things for her to do than to go into a bar and order a drink. Still, she couldn’t find the necessary gumption to get out of her car. People talked, she knew they did, and she had absolutely no desire to have to explain herself to anyone, least of all her friends, who would reprimand her for it. So turning the car around again, Catherine headed to the one house where she knew she would be welcome, and, she reasoned, where she should have gone first, if for no other reason than to warn the girl that her uncle was afoot in Winslow.
THIS TIME, CATHERINE did not waste any time sitting in the car. After getting out, she hurried up the steps to the veranda and knocked, even though the windows were dark and Antonia’s car was nowhere in sight. As she knocked again to no avail, Catherine felt ashamed for having cursed her earlier. You might deserve many things, but you don’t deserve my scorn, she thought. I hope you’re safe. She left the veranda, the evening breeze rustling the trees around her and conjuring up all kinds of shifting shadows. After pulling the car into her drive, she stared through the deepening blue dark at her house and cottage, whose windows flickered faintly with light. The sight of these familiar, solid structures eased her fear, though she still wanted to barricade herself in her bedroom. Before she did, however, she had to tell Henry that it was time for him to go. Though she knew it would pain her to have to say good-bye to his rent money, she would gladly rip up his check if it meant she never had to see him again. She would rent the cottage to someone else. Yes, even a stranger, she thought, tapping on the cottage door.
“Henry, unlock the door, please,” she said. The door, however, was already unlocked. Apprehensively, Catherine stepped into the cottage, calling out, “Henry, are you here?”
She didn’t see him as she entered, although he was in evidence everywhere she looked—from the still-burning candles that sat on the low-slung mosaic table to the bottles, newspapers, and cigarette butts that littered the floor. She blew out the candles, then turned to the study. She knew he was in there, because a dim light spilled under the door. Pressing an ear against it, she heard nothing but the hum of the wind and the beat of her own angry, disappointed heart. “I’m not mad, Henry, but I really have to talk to you,” she said, lying, keeping the fury out of her voice. “What went on between you and Antonia is none of my business. I’m not here about that anyway. I’m here because we had an arrangement, remember? I just don’t want this to become forever. Look, if you don’t come out, I’m going to have come in, and I’d rather not.” Even as she said this, she reached in her pocket for her keys.
After fitting the key into the lock, she turned the knob, dreading what she might find. Opening the door, she said, “Henry,” though he was not in the room. The light came from the street outside, and from the full moon, which shone brightly through the windows. She was relieved to find that nothing had changed. Wyatt’s cherrywood desk still sat under the windows, Henry’s typewriter resting on top of it, the demure stained-glass lamp beside it. He’d spooled a single sheet of paper into the typewriter’s roller, but the page was blank, as blank and unused, she thought, as the room itself. Then, really, what has he been doing?
Suddenly, Catherine looked out the window, where she thought she saw a figure streaking past. She let out a gasp and stumbled backward against the wall, which caused a small avalanche of what felt like soft bricks. She reached down, grabbed one of the bricks, and held it up. No, she thought, not a brick at all, but a stack of what looked like newly minted dollar bills, bound with rubber bands. “Dollar bills? What in the world, Henry?” she said aloud, replacing the stacks as neatly as she could. She counted forty-three of them, guessing that each stack contained one hundred bills. If Henry were planning some kind of escape—though from what she couldn’t imagine—forty-three hundred dollars wouldn’t get him far or last him long. Clearly, he was up to something. Clearly, he’d been using the cottage for no good.
BACK IN HER house, Catherine went around locking all the windows. When the phone rang she stared at it, hesitant to pick it up. From the kitchen, the answering machine clicked on, filling the house with a whistling echo and a terrible laugh. It was Royal, she knew it was Royal, and she went to the front window, peering out into the dark. After this, the night unfolded in a series of endless scratches and groans that arose from everywhere and nowhere. Again, she checked the front and back doors and windows, to make sure everything was secure. No one was getting in, she understood, but then she wasn’t getting out, either.
After pouring a glass of wine, she took it to the sofa. Deciding then that she wanted to talk to someone, anyone, she got up to use the phone, just as it rang again. This time, she answered it, only to hear what sounded like someone typing—and she slammed down the phone. When she had been a girl and afraid of the night, she had always read a book to distract herself. She looked for Antonia’s novel, though after a few minutes remembered she’d left it out on the deck. There were other novels to choose from, however, and she rummaged the shelves, yet nothing grabbed her eye.
“Wyatt, what should I read?” she said aloud as she entered the study, where she was met with a mildewy, decaying scent. She’d been back inside it only once since the rainstorm, and in that time it seemed to have rotted even further. A cluster of what looked like small toadstools had pushed up through the spaces between the planks in the hardwood floor. The walls were graying, and black mold clung to the window frames. When she tried to move one of the cardboard boxes, it came apart in her fingers, spilling out her incomplete dissertation—“The Deconstructing Williams: Eschatological Anticipation in the Novels of Gass and Gaddis”—a couple of frayed scholarly journals she’d published in, her diploma from Stanford, the acceptance letter to NYU. There was also the first edition of Poor Folk, an anniversary present she’d planned to give to Wyatt, which was still wrapped in the same blue tissue paper, the card with his name still stuck under the red-satin ribbon. It was a nasty surprise—she’d forgotten about the book—and it sent a ripple of sorrow through her. She tried another box, which also fell apart, letting go Wyatt’s magazines and papers, which hadn’t gotten wet, and his manuscript, which had. She set the damp pages aside, then climbed over the odds and ends of the life she’d stored in the room to get at the box marked BOOKS. Over the last year and a half since Wyatt’s death, she’d intended to go through all the boxes but hadn’t found the courage.
Now she opened the box and gazed down into a world that had once belonged to both of them. Every book she pulled out reminded her of Wyatt, every title a different memory. She began to weep.
“I can’t do this without you anymore, Wyatt,” she said. “I don’t want to do any of this without you. I-I hate you for leaving and for taking Henry’s review to heart. I hate you for giving in.”
Though she had imagined saying this before, hoping it might make her feel better, she’d never let herself. Having done it, she was sad to feel as she always did, and even sadder because she missed Wyatt all the more. Abandoning the books, she was about to leave the room when she stopped and looked down at the manuscript. She remembered wanting to read it the day she’d brought it home from his office, though it turned out she hadn’t had the courage for this, either. She also remembered telling Jane about the manuscript and how Jane had asked her, “Do you really want Wyatt in your head right now? Give yourself a few months, Catherine, then maybe you’ll be ready.” Tonight, she still didn’t know if she was ready, but she knew it was time.
